by Anna Todd
“It totally was the food,” you curse lowly, just to yourself, grimacing in annoyance.
You close your eyes and think of positive and nice things, so your head is filled with your favorite band and the knowledge you’ll see them live soon, you’ll be there for the good-bye as you’ll be for their comeback. Despite the pain, the smile is natural on your face as you get a bit nostalgic for all the time you’ve been their fan, supporting them, watching them grow as you do the same. You remember the days when Louis was obsessed with stripes, when Niall wore that red polo shirt on every concert of their first tour, and you chuckle at the memory of how you also got a varsity jacket because of Zayn. How could you forget the period when Liam only wore plaid shirts and couldn’t stop talking about Woody? Or Harry and his blazer?
You were a fan when Harry didn’t have a single tattoo. You remember the first time you saw the star on his arm and how, rather quickly, more and more were added after the quote until . . . well, shit happens.
You remember your favorite one, Niall: prior to braces, during braces, and after braces.
You were part of the carrot obsession and later were calling the new fans carrots as a mean way of offending them for their ignorance.
You were there when Zayn left the band, with the confusion and heartbreak that it brought. You cried, wondered why, and even failed a test because your head was anywhere but school. Your mother scolded you severely, but you couldn’t help it. For you One Direction wasn’t just a band you liked; they had always been so much more.
You’ve been there from Up All Night to Made in the A.M., and you’ll be there when they come out with their sixth album.
You heave a deep sigh and open your eyes again, smiling to yourself realizing that, once again, One Direction have helped you through a tough time, in this case food poisoning on a plane.
As soon as you notice no one is in line for the restroom anymore, you push all thoughts to the farthest corner of your mind and just make a run for your life, aka to the toilet. Thank goodness it’s unlocked, so you just push the door open and enter as fast as you can, knowing that if you keep torturing yourself like this, you’ll die, pitifully, on a plane before the concert. You managed to get such good seats—you can’t die just yet.
Things, sometimes, happen faster than you process them. That’s how you sometimes end up in situations that are just too bizarre for an ordinary teenager.
This is one of those.
As you step inside the restroom, another person is just leaving. Yes, at the same exact time. Because your luck is rotten this day and what else could happen to you?—it gets worse. On your way in, you accidentally tackle the guy trying to exit, making him crash into the small and compact sink as you reflexively close the door behind you too enthusiastically—to put it nicely—trapping you both inside.
“Oh, God,” you mumble, your brain working one second slower than the events unfolding before your eyes. The moment you look up to see the face of the person you’ve just dragged into your misery, you go completely pale, all color draining, making you look like a corpse as you stare agape at the man before you. “Oh, dear God, no.”
But no plea to the heavens will change that you just had to trap in the restroom with you the world-famous Niall Horan.
How . . . just how can your luck be so rotten that you meet him, for the first time, in a situation like this? With him staring at you with a panicked look, confused eyes and lips tightly pressed together, with his hands on your shoulders, trying to make room between you two.
You’re not just bumping into a celebrity, not just a celebrity you like. Nope. This is Niall freaking Horan, your favorite from One Direction, your favorite band of all time.
The odds aren’t in your favor today, that’s for sure.
“I’m . . . I’m so . . . I’m so sorry. . . . I thought it was vacant and I . . . I was in a hurry . . .” You are doing your best not to hyperventilate in front of him or just burst out fangirling on his face. You cover your mouth with shaky hands because you just don’t know what to do.
You’ve read countless fanfictions. Practically every completed one you could find that was actually readable, and many times you dreamed of meeting One Direction in a random and totally fateful encounter. You imagined yourself making a great first impression and then falling in love and living your own story with one of them, extra points if that one is Niall.
Never, not even in your wildest daydreams, did you imagine something like this could happen. Not after spending ten hours in the airport, waiting for your plane, wearing the most casual—that is, comfortable—clothes you could find for the long trip. Not with your hair looking like a bird’s nest. Not when you’re ill because the food they gave you was probably poisoned!
“Are you okay?” he asks, and you can’t control the little squeal that escapes your lips when you hear that unmistakable accent directed at you, with his big blue eyes watching you closely.
In all fairness, though, it might be because your guts are twisting even worse than before, probably due to the stressful situation.
“I am perfectly fine,” you lie as you feel your body betraying you with more cold sweat, making your skin glow, and not in the good way but more like in a she-is-about-to-die-and-for-your-own-sake-you-should-stay-away kind of look.
“Not to be rude, but you don’t look quite well, love,” he insists, looking a bit worried.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just . . . trying not to faint in front of you.” Your voice wavers a bit at the end of that sentence as your guts twist ruthlessly, making you cross your legs and sweat even more. “Big fan,” you add in such a small voice that he can understand something is really wrong.
“I’m glad to hear that. . . . Um, should I, you know? Leave you to your business alone?” he suggests, blushing a bit himself and trying to contain a nervous smile.
You just feel humiliated. “I thought we were having a nice chat, you know?” You close your eyes immediately, knowing you’re just saying stupid things. Maybe now you also have a fever. “I’m sorry.”
Although you feel miserable, he is at least chuckling to himself.
“It’s nice, but it’s kinda weird having it here, and there’s something poking me from behind and it kinda hurts, you know? Not that you’re not lovely or I don’t want to spend time with our fans, but . . . you know? I mean, you’re the best fans on the planet.”
It’s your turn to laugh at his consideration and words, but that would be a mistake. Laughing makes you lose control, and things that shouldn’t happen in front of other people occur. You contort yourself in an almost-unnatural position, wrapping both arms around your stomach and practically losing your balance.
“I think you really need to be left alone,” he says, doing his best to control his facial expression.
You’re incapable of saying anything and do your best to move aside so he can leave. That was the first thing you should’ve done, but when you’re feeling so poorly, it’s to be expected your brain doesn’t work properly.
Since you had slammed the door closed, it’s jammed, and you want to cry when you see him struggling to open it. And that moment your guts start to cry out to tell you they can’t endure it anymore, and it’s that kind of sound you make at the worst time, like when you’re in an exam and everyone is quiet, your stomach rumbles and they pretend they didn’t hear but they do . . . just like Niall does now. It’s evident by the way he tries harder to open the door, and when it finally works, he flies out, barely mumbling a good-bye, and finally you’re alone.
“This is the worst day of my life,” you murmur to yourself. “Even if I met Niall Horan, I just traumatized him.”
AFTER SOME MOMENTS in miserable solitude, you go back to your seat, feeling physically a lot better, though emotionally devastated. You make sure to hide for the rest of the flight, cursing your luck. Even if you were blessed to be on the same plane as One Direction, you had to get food poisoning when you actually got the chance to meet one
of the members.
“I take back what I thought before. Karma is a total bitch,” you whisper to yourself, trying to fall asleep.
And you curse your luck even more because you’re in the air and can’t text your friend, who’s always been there every time you needed her, just one text message away. You’re all alone with your humiliation now.
When you land in London, there’s no sign of the biggest boy band in the world, but your friend is waiting for you, with a sign especially made for you. The encounter is emotional and loving; you two hug tightly, happy to finally meet in person after years of online friendship, countless Skype calls, and endless text chats. You are closer to her than to anyone in your school or neighborhood. No one understands you better than her, and just being with her makes you feel better after your ordeal.
When you tell her what happened on the plane and how you met, and emotionally scarred, Niall Horan, she laughs at your rotten luck and the improbability of the meeting. “Focus on the bright side: meeting Niall whilst humiliating yourself is quite better than not meeting him at all.”
You just whine, not able to see it like that just yet.
HOWEVER, A FEW DAYS LATER, when things start going better and the concert approaches, you can see the bright side and actually agree with your friend. By the time it’s finally the day of the concert, you have totally put that experience—and the whole fiasco of that day—behind and are ready to enjoy the last concert and then cry your eyes out.
At Motorpoint Arena you and another almost fourteen thousand people wait for One Direction to take the stage. The moment the lights dim, you scream along with everyone else, then scream even louder when the first chord sounds and they show up. You sing your lungs out, not believing you’re so close to them. You dance and cry out of sheer excitement, proud of your One Direction T-shirt and so glad your friend is there, holding your hand and reminding you this band is what brought so many blessings to your life.
The first songs fly by, and your levels of adrenaline and excitement are so high it’s as if you’ve drunk ten energy drinks and twenty cups of coffee. But then it’s the moment for the band to make official introductions and talk to the audience, and you can’t help yourself—you’re shaking like a little Chihuahua.
At some point you swear Harry makes eye contact with you, but so does your friend, and probably so do all the girls around you. It doesn’t matter, it feels like he did and waved at you.
When you see Niall passing by, though, you feel a bit of the shame coming back, though not enough to ruin the moment.
That is, until he sees you. Yes, out of all the other people in the VIP section, he spots you. True, you’re quite close, just two seats from the stage, but still, he spots you. And you know that because he points at you with wide eyes that only mean he’s recognized someone in the audience, right before he bursts out laughing, confusing his bandmates and everyone in the audience. It’s that rich and lovable laughter that every fan can immediately recognize, and on this occasion you are the catalyst of that reaction.
He walks a bit closer to the edge, making fans scream and try to reach him, but you stay where you are, frozen as you feel his eyes on you. Your friend squeezes your hand as tightly as you crush hers.
“You’re the loo girl!” he says into the microphone for everyone to hear. “On the plane!” He laughs again.
That’s all the confirmation you need—he really is talking to you. In front of everyone.
“Did you feel better after that?” he asks.
Wanting to cry and hoping the earth will open and swallow you whole, you just nod and give him a thumbs-up. You know more fans are watching you, wondering what happened and how you met Niall Horan.
“Good! You looked quite desperate.” He smiles fondly, still amused at the situation. “That’s quite the story you got. Make sure to tell it to your grandchildren.” You just make that silent sobbing gesture because you can’t even cry for real. You just know your face is brighter than any sign in that arena. “Enjoy the concert—and don’t get sick again!”
Giving you one last bright and wide smile, he turns to whisper something in Louis’s ear, just to make him widen his eyes and laugh out loud with him. If you didn’t love their laughter so much, especially Niall’s, which no matter what always makes you laugh too, you’d be crying on the floor. For now, you just hide your face behind your hands, not believing he recognized you in the crowd. And that he told the others what happened on the plane.
“The next song is dedicated to all our incredible fans! You’re absolutely amazing,” Niall says louder, speaking to the whole crowd again. “Especially to a fan I met on a plane. Life never ceases to amaze us, right? When you think you’ve seen it all, it surprises you again.” He then turns in your direction for one of his signature winks that always give you a cardiac arrest. “This is ‘No Control’!”
The music starts and the crowd goes wild, completely forgetting what happened. Still, your friend screams in your ear to say, “I CAN’T BELIEVE NIALL HORAN RECOGNIZED YOU IN THE CROWD! YOU ARE SO LUCKY!”
You laugh at that, what else could you do? Luck or bad luck, you really can’t tell.
Karma is a bitch, but it also gives you good things to balance it all. As your friend says, you just have to look at the bright side. Niall Horan just dedicated a song to you during the band’s last concert before their hiatus.
And who knows? Maybe Niall will still remember you and spot you in the crowd next time.
A fangirl can always hope, right? At least dreams are for free and you can afford them, not like concert tickets.
On the bright side, you have a year to save money for said concerts.
Let the Heart Lead the Way
Doeneseya Bates
Imagine . . .
It was a spring evening in California. Stepping out of the hot, soothing shower, you reminisced on a special night two years ago. . . .
Being twenty-four, you had been an anxious, excited mess. As you smiled at the heart-racing experience, a simple chuckle left your mouth. Two years ago tonight, you had been sitting on the edge of your bed looking ahead to the next day, your wedding day. You were young, but so in love. You were naïve, but so sure of your choice. You were scared, but felt secure with the man you (today) call your husband.
Denied your reflection now in the foggy mirror, you drew your husband’s name, Justin, with a heart to dot the i. Wanting to ditch the cold draft, you dried off and began to get dressed. As you pulled one of his shirts down your frame, you thought about your anniversary tomorrow.
Coming out of the bathroom, you found Justin writing in a notebook that he had steadied in his lap as he rested in bed. Maybe he was writing a song. Realizing your presence, he quickly closed his notebook and slid it to the side. Hearing the notebook hit the floor, you raised an eyebrow. He didn’t realize you could see that?
“Hey, babe.” He greeted you with a warm smile. As he readjusted in bed, his hair came down into his face. You love it when he wears his hair down. It’s relaxed and effortless. It’s sexy to you, but back to his poor attempt at secrecy.
You smirked at his failed discretion. “Whatcha doing over there, Bieber?” Your fuzzy slippers glided over the plush white carpet.
Justin smiled at your awkward movements and defended his actions: “I’m not doing anything. I’m just chilling, waiting for you to get out of the shower.” If he wasn’t going to bring up the notebook, you weren’t either. He didn’t want you to know, and you were patient enough to find out later.
You jumped into bed, leaving your slippers on and planting your bum on your heels.
“Sooo, about tomorrow . . .” You tilted your head.
Justin narrowed his eyes, bringing his closed fist to his chin. “Hmmmm . . . What’s tomorrow? May fourteenth. There’s nothing too special about the day.” Then he laughed as your jaw dropped.
Picking up two of the many down pillows, you tossed them at him, punishing him for his lies. “Don’t do that
!” You jumped on top of him, making him tumble over with his laughs. “Tomorrow’s our two-year anniversary. You know that!”
“I completely forgot,” he proclaimed, his voice muffled under the pillows. He didn’t even try to fight you off.
Removing a pillow, you found his face. “Are you going to keep playing these games?”
He shifted under your weight. “Are you going to keep wearing my shirts?”
“I always wear them. They’re pretty much mine. Plus, you love when I wear your clothes.”
“I was in such a rush yesterday that I picked one off the floor and was stuck smelling like your perfume all day.” He pinched your thigh, making you jump.
“Stop.” You swatted his hand. “What was it doing on the floor, anyways?” You looked around the clean room. You don’t just throw clothes around, and you damn sure don’t let him get away with it.
He gave you a cheeky expression. What did you do to be rewarded with this cuteness?
“What?” you asked, pouting with confusion.
“So, you don’t remember?”
What was he talking about? You thought about it, but nothing came to mind.
“Like I didn’t take it off you and throw it—”
“Oh!” You quickly covered his mouth as if someone might hear. “Yes, about that.” You giggled, taking away your shielding hand to tuck your blinding hair behind your ear. Swiping away his hair, you wanted to see his sculpted face.
“You’re just going to forget about me like that? Must I remind you how it went?” He quickly sat up, flipping you over. A squeal might have slipped from you. Grabbing the shirt by the collar, he lifted you up and sealed your lips with his. “Let me remind you.” He took the shirt off you and tossed it onto the floor.
You loved it when he took charge.
“Come here, boy.” You enticed him with a kiss.
BRIGHT SUNLIGHT woke you up the next morning. Why must the rays always be so rude as to be in your face? Why are the blinds even open?